A broken tulip

This morning, Mr. Singh called out, “Maia! Oh-oh, Maia!”

I look up. He points. “Festival!”

I turn and see a wagonload overflowing with colourful people descending into the strawberries like birds, decked out for this “festival”.

I rest my hands on my knees and laugh. Mr. Singh, and Mr. Singh’s brother, laugh too. We laugh for a long time. I laugh because we have already picked thousands of strawberries and will pick so many more. Because I can no longer stand up straight, my back is so sore. Because my work is in a strawberry festival, picking alongside Punjabi men. Because between us language comes one word at a time, but laughter flows through all the cracks and forgives our linguistic muddles. I laugh because it’s Summer in Ontario. There is warm sunshine and blue skies and the pert green leaves of strawberries in neat rows. I am here, again. I traveled the world and came back to this field again, to Mr. Singh again, to laughter and stained hands and sore backs.

Really, strawberry picking is like writing. You need humour, persistence, and the sheer pig-headedness to keep going when your body and brain cry out to stop. You are constantly searching, evaluating, choosing. You toss what is rotted and eat the berries whose hats pop off.

If you get it right, the end product looks effortless: pretty, perfect red berries spilling over a green plastic quart.

And no matter if you spend your morning picking strawberries, or writing, people tend to respond the same. They think you’re crazy. So you laugh.

Image: by Bessa https://www.art.com/products/p10843461064-sa-i4262660/bessa-bessa-strawberries.htm?upi=PDTRJS0&PODConfigID=9201947&sOrigID=9319Image: